


Hurt

by RosYourBoat



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Songfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House is hurting--what else is new?--and hides himself away in his office to curl around his guitar and a bottle of Vicodin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "Hurt" was written in June of 2009 and was inspired by the song "Hurt," covered by Johnny Cash. It is complete.

House tossed a pill down his throat with practiced ease, shutting his eyes tightly and bowing his head afterwards while his right hand drifted down to his ruined thigh to rub it absent-mindedly. It was a futile movement borne of habit. He had discovered long ago that trying to ease his pain by massaging the muscle—or what was left of it—was useless unless someone else (i.e. Wilson, the overly-compassionate bastard who had stood by him stubbornly through all of the surgeries and physical therapy and had made it a point to learn every exercise or massage the therapists had tried on House) did it for him.

His lip curled wryly. _Physician_ , _heal thyself_.

It was nearly lunch time, which meant that he had at least an hour, maybe more, before Cuddy marched her way to his office in one of her typically-tight business skirts and threaten to crush his balls under her needle-point stilettos. That woman seriously needed to get laid. If he wasn’t so sure that she would rip off his head and feast on his innards afterwards, he would gladly volunteer for the job. Hell, if she was wearing that tight, red v-neck today then he might do it anyway. It would probably be worth it.

He had already sent his fellows scurrying off to do whatever they did when he didn’t have a case and, in deference to his pain, he had shut the doors and blinds and dimmed the lights in his office. Today was a “bad” day. Not that he ever really had a “great” day or even a “good” day lately, but when he had woken up to a great boom of thunder and his leg screaming at him in agony, he had known that today would be less than enjoyable. After the infarction, his leg had acted like a veritable weather vane—more reliable than any schmuck on the nine o’clock news—and would stiffen up at even the slightest hint of a coming storm or change of season. He should have realized last night, when he’d had to take an extra Vicodin just to sleep at two in the morning after four fingers of scotch, but…

The Vicodin was finally kicking in. House felt his muscles relax slowly and he raised his head, letting it fall back against the headrest of his chair with a groan. He hadn’t been able to move, much less walk, when he had woken up this morning. After lying in bed with gritted teeth for nearly forty-five minutes, he had managed to limp his way to the bathroom in a half-hearted attempt to get ready for the day. When he had finally emerged, Wilson was awake and putting the coffee on, already dressed impeccably and the linens he insisted on using on the couch folded and placed in House’s hallway closet. They were so familiar with each other by now that they barely had to say anything to each other at all anymore—especially in the morning—but that didn’t mean that House couldn’t feel Wilson’s concern radiating from the kitchen while House paced/limped around the living room to loosen up his muscles.

The rain that his leg promised didn’t come until after they had arrived at the hospital, at which point the dark, heavy clouds overhead acted like popped water balloons and rained buckets over Princeton. And though House had come to hate the cold and wet long before his infarction, he still left his balcony door propped open to hear the almost musical qualityof the fat drops against concrete and foliage.

With his pain reduced to a steady, manageable throb, House finally reached down and picked up his acoustic guitar again, swinging it comfortably across his lap. He let his fingers roam over the strings while he cocked an ear to the pattering raindrops. Chords and broken melodies fell from his fingertips absently, the vibrating strings providing a melancholic backdrop to the thoughts running through his mind. He played quietly out of habit; no matter how much House loved to blast out his varied musical favorites from imported speakers, he rarely let people actually hear _him_ play… unless he was fabulously drunk. He had played deliberately—while sober—for only his mother, Stacy, and Wilson.

He thought of Wilson that morning, trying to act natural and unconcerned in the face of House’s pain and failing miserably. But it was the _attempt—_ the understanding looks and distracting conversations and brief, comforting touches on the arm or shoulder and silent, staunch, unwavering support—that made the difference. Wilson’s unceasing concern was alternately confusing and damn annoying, but House could never fault him for it, no matter how many jokes he made. It was just how Jimmy was. He… _cared_ , more than anyone else House knew and more than House thought anyone should.

His subconscious seemed to know what song he needed to play, as his fingers stopped their restless plucking and expertly strummed a familiar chord. The melody swiftly formed, sounding loud in the small room despite House’s soft, thoughtful playing.

“I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain; the only thing that’s real.” In true Johnny Cash style, House didn’t sing the words so much as murmur them to himself in a slow, lilting tone. His voice was low, a soothing baritone, and didn’t sound bad despite lacking Cash’s gravely drawl.

“The needle tears a hole; the old familiar sting. Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything.” House’s eyes fell shut of their own accord as his mind fell into memory and his playing became more emphatic but remained as slow and steady as a beating drum. “What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away, in the end. And you could have it all: my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt.”

House’s voice dropped back to a whisper at the last word and his face drew taut with concentration as he continued to play. He was bent close to his guitar, nearly wrapped around it in a lover’s embrace as he crooned to it, plucking and strumming effortlessly. He was so absorbed in the music that he didn’t hear the sound of the rain grow louder as the balcony door opened further and another person stepped into the room.

“I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar’s chair; full of broken thoughts I cannot repair. Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am still right here.” Unbidden, House’s thoughts returned to Wilson. This song always reminded him of his best friend; of how screwed up they both really were. Despite House’s addiction, his trust issues and acerbic personality, Wilson refused to back down and abandon him no matter how much easier it would make his life.

“What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away, in the end. And you could have it all: my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt.” Sometimes, when House’s thoughts lingered for too long on the _whys_ and _what ifs_ of their friendship, he felt like a parasite—sucking away the happiness that Wilson seemed to naturally accumulate and exude. But somehow, Wilson seemed to sense whenever these thoughts settled in House’s mind and invariably he would find a way to show that he was happy where he was, with House. And though he would rather die than admit it, that made House happy, too.

_But still…_

“If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself. I would find a way.”

House fell silent, bent over his equally-silent guitar, and brooded in the shadowed room for a long moment. His right hand automatically drifted to his thigh and his body shivered in a sudden breeze. He finally became aware that he wasn’t alone when his balcony door snicked closed, shutting out the sounds of the rain and the wind.

“Tickets are fifteen bucks, but I’ll settle for a Rueben and a side of onion rings since you’ve got a pretty face.” Wilson’s fingers trailed over House’s shoulder lightly before he leaned his hip against the desk in front of him.

“Lech,” he said, affection coloring his amusement. “I heard the music and came to see if you wanted some lunch once you were done wallowing in self-pity.” He paused for a moment before offering, “You were good. Really good.”

House huffed, setting the guitar down carefully. “This coming from someone who listens to the likes of Barry Manilow and Billy Joel. The intricacies of Johnny Cash are wasted on you.”

Wilson scoffed. “I believe the last song you played for me on your piano was ‘ _My Baby Grand’_ , so you really have no room to talk.”

“One good song hardly redeems him, even if it _was_ played with Ray Charles.” He stopped when Wilson shivered. The oncologist had not been spared on the trip to House’s office; the rain had plastered strands of his dark, silky hair to his forehead and his shirt was damp. “Idiot, you’re going to catch pneumonia. Here.” He rummaged through his backpack and tossed him a spare t-shirt. Wilson shot him a thankful look before rubbing his head with the shirt that smelled of House’s unique scent—a mixture of soap, cologne, and House.

Wilson spread the shirt neatly on the desk to dry and ran a hand through his hair. He grimaced. “Damn, my hair’s ruined.”

House chuckled. “You flamer.”

Wilson just shrugged, unfazed by the insult. “So, lunch?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


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